Sat alone except for the cats
who've come to watch the moths
in the light above the table
I drink wine and breathe in the warm air
above the emptying restaurant below
and listen to a last group spilling onto
the Carrer d’En Bordils
with a crescendo of mopeds and laughter
and footsteps, a girl in white,
with dark limbs, glimpsed
between the railings, retreating
until there is nothing
except the night
quiet in its corners;
the sea rising and falling,
the ghost of a cat passing this way and that,
the same wine new with defeat,
the moths still working at the light.